Here is where you died.
I could be pointing
at my center. But I mean

family porch. The smallest fractures splitting

Two pillars stand

guard over Mother’s cat decorations
and blooms

of flowers–aloe vera ready to split
open, liquid salve. Children’s toys, scooters, bikes and

such, some worn to metal bone from years
of play.

Here is where

I choked on hope. Here is where
your childhood

friend comes to talk
to you and drink
beer. He sips
from can, says

he knows it’s you
he’s speaking to
because sometimes
you give shitty advice.

Here is where we hurt,
where I wish our blood

stain that marked us good
and quick could be seen by
all. Where blood-hurt snips

at spine. All the bits
of crumble we cling to,
up for one last taste of life
before bullet.

Here is where
I would point

to your body and tell you
what I know now:

Mourning is such a rough
wave–a seasonal
monsoon–always returning,
bringing a torrential ache.